


Reset

by maryagrawatson



Series: Reset Universe [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, non-graphic references to off screen violence, non-graphic references to rape and attempted rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8625682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryagrawatson/pseuds/maryagrawatson
Summary: With the threat of Moriarty gone for good, Sherlock hits the reset button on his life as he accepts new responsibilities and resumes the Work with a simple 40-year-old case.





	1. Prologue: The Case

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jolie_Black](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolie_Black/gifts), [Boton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/gifts).



> Thank you to Jolie_Black for all the discussions about this story and her amazing "How to Write a Casefic," which propelled me to the finish line.
> 
> Thank you to Boton for the beta and the confidence that the story was finally ready to be posted!
> 
> This story follows "Eleven Months." While it's not strictly necessary to read it to make sense of "Reset," it will help set some context.
> 
> While I have drawn from a real life case in writing this story, the end result is fictional and any resemblance to people living or dead is coincidental.
> 
> Locations are based on places that I have been to in London, but, again, are used in an entirely fictional way.
> 
> The story is complete and I will be posting one chapter per day for the next two weeks.

_Kensal Green (northwest London), December 1977_

The music is as deafening as the lights are blinding. Karen Howard grabs Diane Brown’s hand and pulls her best friend towards the club’s exit. She doesn't waste any breath on speaking because Diane wouldn’t be able to hear her.

It’s only outside on the pavement, as Diane fumbles for a cigarette, that Karen finally speaks. "I’m done. Let’s go get a bite, okay?"  
"Hmm," Diane mutters, taking a long puff. "Fine. Let’s walk. A warm December night like this is a treat."  
"It sure is!"

The friends walk westward in companionable silence along the nearly deserted Harrow Road. It's only gone on nine, embarrassingly early to be giving up on clubbing when the night is just starting, but it has been non-stop parties since two weeks before Christmas. Even Diane is ready for a night in. "What are you in the mood for?" she asks Karen.  
"Oh, the usual," she replies, referring to their favourite curry house.

It’s only a block away, bright and welcoming, full to bursting with their schoolmates. Diane spots her ex-boyfriend and points him out to Karen. They take a table on the other side of the restaurant, but he still sees them.  
"Go away, Jimmy," Karen says harshly as he approaches. "Don't make us ask them to kick you out."  
"Come on, Karen. I just want to tell Diane I'm sorry."  
"Leave me alone, Jimmy. I'm not getting back together with you!"  
"Diane --"  
"Mickey!" Karen calls above the din, catching the eye of the server.  
He excuses himself from the table he's waiting on and comes over. "Why are you bothering these girls, Jimmy?"  
"Ain't botherin' no one," Jimmy mumbles. "I'm leaving."  
Mickey shrugs. "Your usual, girls?"

***

An hour later, sated, the girls head home. Diane’s turnoff is at Wrottesley, so they pause there for a moment.  
"Let’s go shopping tomorrow," she suggests. "That Christmas money is burning a hole in my pocket."  
"Mine too," Karen grins. "Ring me."  
"I will. ‘Night."  
"Night!"

Diane turns and heads up over the bridge towards Bathurst Gardens when her footsteps begin echoing in the night. "That’s odd," she thinks as she reaches the northern edge of the vacant lot on the west side of Wrottesley.

And then, something slams into the back of her head. She falls to her knees on the pavement as stars explode in front of her eyes. Nearly senseless, she feels herself being dragged some distance. Her head is too muzzy for her to resist, but she whimpers as bits of gravel and broken glass dig into her legs.

She's finally dropped onto her front. Through the haze of pain, she hears, "You shouldn't have denied me," and the shock of his voice breaks through the concussion. She tries to cry for help, but he has hand over her mouth.

She registers only another explosion of pain as the hand is taken away and her face is slammed into the ground. He pulls her head up and then brings it down again with greater force.

It's not over, but, mercifully, that's the last thing she feels.


	2. The Hostage

_Central London, Present Day, a month after Sherlock's return in "Eleven Months" and fourteen months after the events of "His Last Vow" and "The Abominable Bride."_

"Doing okay, Sherlock?" Sergeant Sally Donovan asks calmly, as though he doesn’t have an arm wrapped around his windpipe crushing the breath out of him. He manages a grunt. She eyes him evenly and he blinks rapidly to show that he understands even as his vision begins to fade to grey spots.

Just as she whips out her Taser, he raises his foot. But as he’s about to smash it into his captor’s instep, there’s a rush of air and suddenly he really can’t breathe anymore.

Witnesses hear a wail before sobbing breaths as Sherlock drops to his knees, the suspect taking the opportunity of the momentary confusion to take off.

"Pepper spray!" Donovan yells to DI Greg Lestrade. "I’ve got this! You get the bastard!"

She drops by Sherlock’s side. "Sherlock, I need you to breathe normally." If he hears her, he gives no sign of it as he rubs at his face, tears and mucus already running copiously down his chin and soaking his shirt. "I know it hurts, but I need you to keep your hands away from your face and to try to breathe normally."

He’s genuinely sobbing by this point, harsh cries torn from his throat as he tries to focus on her words. "Let’s get you up and to your flat so we can rinse you off," Donovan continues, in a tone that is equal parts firm and gentle. "Mulligan, take one side," she calls to a PC staring in shock at Sherlock being reduced to such a state.

He snaps to attention, "I’ve got you, Mr. Holmes," he says. "We’re taking you to Sergeant Donovan’s car. Okay?" Sherlock is still taking rabbit quick breaths, trying to force air through the burning in his lungs, and all he can do is let them work.

He’s nearly boneless as they prop him up and almost drag him to Donovan’s car. There, he collapses in the back seat on his side, drawing his knees up, and still crying. "That’s good. Keep blinking," Donovan urges him. "We’ll be at your place in minutes."

Thankfully, there’s parking in front of 221B Baker Street. Before helping Sherlock out of the car, Donovan digs in his pockets for his keys, not wanting to waste time waiting for his landlady to open the door, if she’s even home to do so. The immediate shock has worn off and Sherlock is able to get himself out of the car and up the stairs with Donovan’s support. She's appalled by how slight he is.

In the lounge, she strips him of his coat, jacket, and shoes, then pulls him towards the bathroom, grabbing the washing up liquid from the kitchen counter on the way.

"In the bath," she orders. He half falls into the tub and doesn’t even flinch when she starts with the cold water, not giving it time to adjust to a comfortable temperature. "Let that run a minute over your face to rinse your eyes," she says. "I’ll be right back."

He’s in the same position when she returns a few minutes later. "Sit up and hold out a hand." He does so and she places a glass in it, wrapping his fingers around it. "Milk. Drink. And swish it around your mouth." Sherlock obeys. "Okay, let’s get the worst of this off. The soap will help dissolve the oil."

***

Back at the scene, with the suspect apprehended, Lestrade makes a call and is surprised when it is answered in two rings. "It's Greg. Got a minute?"  
John Watson sighs, holding a finger up to tell his nurse to stall his next patient. "What has he done?"  
"Got himself pepper sprayed. Through no fault of his own, mind you."  
"Oh my God."   
"Donovan took him home. She seemed to know what she was doing, but..."  
"Got it. I'm on my way."

***

It's not even fifteen minutes later that John lets himself into the flat and races up the stairs. He calls out as he heads towards the noise in the bathroom down the hall.

There, he finds Sherlock nearly covered in suds in the tub and a nearly soaking wet Donovan murmuring in gentle tones as she hoses him down. "Sherlock?" he exclaims, paused in shock in the doorway.  
Donovan looks up. "Full canister at extremely close range."  
"Oh, God. Okay. I’ve got this. Can you run downstairs for some ice cream?"  
"Sure." She passes him the hose.

"Sherlock, it’s John." The only other sound in the room besides the drumming of the water is Sherlock’s ragged breathing. "Let’s finish rinsing you off, okay?"

***

When they’re done, he helps Sherlock out of his wet clothes and into his rattiest tee shirt, pyjamas, and dressing gown, then guides him to the lounge. "Box of tissues is on the coffee table," John says. "You’re going to be snotty for a bit. I’ll get a cool flannel for your eyes."  
"I can’t see," Sherlock manages to bark out hoarsely, sounding very frightened.  
"The blindness is just temporary," John reassures him. "Your eyes are really irritated. A cool compress is the best thing for them."  
Sherlock leans back into the couch cushions and lets out a whimper. "Oh God…"

John returns with the flannel and gently presses it to Sherlock’s face. Donovan comes up the stairs at that moment holding a large container of vanilla ice cream. "Ta," John tells her.  
"Is he going to be all right?" It's a rather disconcerting to hear her sound so concerned.  
"He should be, but considering how close he was to the spray, I’ll monitor his breathing closely. Worried about his airway closing up. Thanks for your help. You did great," John reassures her. "You’ve had training, haven’t you?"  
"Yeah. It was one of the courses I took while I was on that exchange program in California."  
"He was lucky you were there today. Let’s get him some of that ice cream."

Donovan heads out and John finds a clean bowl and spoon. "Sherlock, got some ice cream for you. It’ll help with the burning in your throat. Can you open up for me?"  
"C-cold."  
"Yes, you’re in shock. But the ice cream really will help. Open up?" Sherlock finally obeys.

The first bite does John’s work for him and Sherlock greedily eats the entire large bowlful. "Good," John says. "Now, I’m going to give you something to help you go down for a few hours, to let the worst of it pass. He takes Sherlock’s right hand and places a tablet in it. Sherlock pops it in his mouth and chases it down with a few sips of milk. John helps him recline and covers him with a blanket. Within minutes, Sherlock is snoring loudly, his breathing impeded by his stuffed up nose.

"Bloody hell," John mutters. He pulls out his phone to let Mary know he’s spending the night.

***

Sherlock wakes a few hours later. "John?" he croaks.  
"Right here," John replies from the red armchair across the sitting room. He turns to see that Sherlock’s eyes are practically swollen shut. "Still can’t see?"  
"Blurry. I know the lights are on."  
"It’ll get better. I’ll get you some water." John stands and heads for the kitchen.  
"Can I have more ice cream?"  
"'Course. Throat still hurting?"  
"Hmm."

***

"Well, that was undignified," Sherlock says after his second dose of ice cream.  
John shakes his head. "Donovan’s been on a course. Knows what it’s like to be hit by a small burst from several feet away, so she’s imagining what you went through was a thousand times worse. First person to snigger won’t know what hit him. There is a silver lining to this whole thing, though."

"What?"  
"The punk was wanted for a summary offense. Pepper spray is classified as a firearm here. Can’t bring it in legally. So they’ve got him for so many indictable offenses he’ll probably never see the light of day again."  
"I can’t feel sorry for him."  
"Ha. Worse than getting shot?"  
"Hell yes. Worse than anything I went through in Eastern Europe. And even worse than that time the dentist hit a nerve while drilling when I wasn't numb yet."

John's eyebrows shoot up. "Wow. Well, thanks for letting Donovan help you."  
"It’s not like I had any choice in the matter. I thought I’d been doused in petrol and someone had lit a match. I think I would have gone with anyone who could make it stop. Glad it was one of your locum days."  
"Me too. Good thing I kept up my work in Marylebone. I'm sorry. I know I haven’t been around much since you got back."  
"You have a baby, John. I get it."

Sherlock leans forward and reaches towards the coffee table.  
"Little to your right." Sherlock’s fingers snag the tissue box and he plucks out a handful before blowing his nose noisily. "You’re not having vindaloo again any time soon."  
"Are you purposely trying to make me sick?"  
John laughs. "How about some soup?"  
"Really not hungry, but I wouldn’t mind more of that ice cream if there’s any left."  
"Donovan went for the economy sized model. I’ll get you the tub."

John heads to the kitchen, then stops. "I've just got one question."  
"Which is?"  
"What were you doing there? I didn't know you were back on cases with Greg."  
"I'm not. I was heading out to Tesco when I was grabbed."

John turns to Sherlock, an incredulous look on his face. "Wait. What? You just happened to fall into a hostage situation?"  
"Yep." Sherlock manages to pop the p even though his lips still hurt.  
"I'm going to laugh. I'm sorry, but I'm going to laugh. Only you, Sherlock."  
"What do you mean, only me? You're the one who's always getting taken hostage!"  
"You're right!"  
"First and last time I do the shopping."  
"Well, you never did get it, did you?"  
"First and last time I attempt to get the shopping," Sherlock amends.

John loses it and Sherlock ends up trying to get the ice cream himself. When he trips over a chair because there are two of them and lands on his arse, all he can do is join John in his hysterics. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a response to a prompt by Jolie_Black from so long ago that I bet she's forgotten the discussion! Neither one of us could believe there was no "Sherlock gets pepper sprayed" fic in this fandom!
> 
> I did a lot of reading of testimonials from people who have been pepper sprayed, including by a Navy Seal who went through SERE training and said that being pepper sprayed was the worst thing he'd ever been through!
> 
> Vinette Robinson wasn't in series three because she was in Hollywood. So of course Donovan was on an exchange program type thing in California. :)


	3. Comes a Client

John wakes to early morning sunlight streaming into his old room. He yawns and stretches, then steals a glance at his watch. Half six. He’d woken around one to use the toilet and had taken a moment to make sure Sherlock was okay. He’d been snoring to raise the dead, his nose still very stuffy.

He dresses and pads downstairs, going straight to Sherlock’s room. There, he finds that Sherlock is curled up on his right side, still sound asleep and snoring. Even in the dim light, John can see that the facial swelling has gone down.

A quick trip to the loo and then he’s heading to the kitchen to make tea when he hears Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs. She’d probably been out with Mr. Chatterjee and spent the night. They'd been spending more and more time together since he'd been her plus one at the wedding.

John hurries to the landing to relieve her of the tea tray. A look of alarm crosses her features when she sees him. "John?"  
"He’s fine. Got pepper sprayed, so I spent the night. He should be better this morning."  
"Oh, poor boy. Should I make some breakfast?"  
"I'd love some eggs, ta. Don't know about Sherlock, though. Still sleeping."  
"Well, I'll make enough for two anyway. Be back in a tick."

***

It's not even fifteen minutes later that John hears movements from Sherlock's room, then the toilet flushing before there are unsteady steps coming down the hallway.  
"Still blurry," Sherlock greets him, his voice raspy but better than the night before.  
"How's the pain? You look like you've got a sunburn."  
"Irritating, but manageable." Sherlock makes his way to his chair.  
"Mrs. Hudson is making breakfast."  
"She'll be happy to know I'm famished."  
"I'm happy to know you're famished. Do you want tea?"  
"Yes, please."

There's no time for John to put the kettle on as Mrs. Hudson calls up the stairs to him a moment later.

She has him carry up a tray with a fresh pot of tea while she follows up with a tray of food. They set up breakfast at the kitchen table, which is miraculously clear. Sherlock has been tidier since his second return, which concerns John. But seeing his friend attack his scrambled eggs and sausages like he hasn't eaten in a week is reassuring.

"Do you want more toast?" John asks, amused, as Sherlock uses a crust to mop up the last of the sausage juice and ketchup.  
"No, thanks. Think I'll have an orange, though."

John's nearest to the fridge, so he gets the fruit, taking one for himself. Sherlock had always liked fruit and his cravings for it had gone up exponentially since his return. There were worse habits he could have picked up. John's happy for any calories Sherlock ingests as he still has a lot of weight to gain.

***

It's an hour later, after Sherlock has showered and changed into clean lounging clothes, that Mrs. Hudson calls up the stairs again. "Boys? Client..."  
Sherlock groans. "Tell her to go away. I'm not seeing anyone today."  
"Please, Mr. Holmes," a woman calls from behind Mrs. Hudson. "The police haven't been able to help me. You're my last hope."  
"Like I haven't heard that before,” he says. "You might as well come in since you've already decided you're not leaving."

The woman comes into the sitting room. She's in her late sixties, plump, tall, and with a full head of chestnut hair streaked with grey.  
Sherlock squints at her. "Sister, is it?"  
"Yes. How do you -- of course. That's exactly why I'm here. Do you know her name?"  
Sherlock quirks a smile. "I'm not psychic." He gestures to a straight back wooden chair. "Sit and tell me the story."

"My name is Sharon Porter. My sister was Diane Brown -- Brown is my maiden name."  
"Not relevant," Sherlock sighs. "But do go on."  
"Diane was raped and murdered just after Christmas 1977."  
"Forty years ago. Why are you taking this outside the police now?"  
"They would reopen the case every few years, find new leads, but there's been nothing for five years. You see things other people don't. I've thought for some time that you could close it, but you haven't been taking cases for a while. Thought I'd better get you while you're available."  
"Logical. But you do realise that her killer could be long dead?"  
"Yes, of course. But I think if I'm ever going to get any answers at all, they'll come from you."  
"All right. Go on."

"Diane had spent the evening with her best friend, Karen. They'd been going hard at it for weeks, staying late at parties and clubs, and were finally going to have an early night in. They split up after getting dinner and Diane never made it home. She was found half naked and bludgeoned to death the next morning by some kids. I -- I had to identify her by a mole on her foot."

Sharon chokes up and John realises how much Sherlock has changed when he hands her the tissue box before John can even reach for it.

Sherlock even gives her a moment. "I'm not sure if I can help you," he says honestly. "This case sounds straightforward. If the police haven't solved it yet..."  
"They missed something," Sharon says emphatically. "If there's someone who can find what that is, it's you."  
Sherlock nods. "I'll see if I can get the file. But I'm not making any promises."  
"I understand." She passes him a piece of paper. "My number."  
"I'll be in touch."

***

John has to go home, but before he leaves, he makes Sherlock promise to call if he feels poorly. Sherlock waves him off, his mind already on the case. He texts Lestrade.

_Client wants me to look at a cold case. Any chance of getting access to the file? SH_

Lestrade rings him ten minutes later. "How old's the case?"  
"From 1977." Sherlock briefs him.  
"I'll see if I can get the original investigator to talk to you and go from there. Not your usual kind of puzzle."  
"Maybe it doesn't always have to be about what I need. And it's not like I have anything else on."  
"Hmm. I'll call you later."

When Lestrade does so, a few hours later, it's to set up a meeting with Detective Inspector Alan Morrison, retired.


	4. The Facts of the Matter

It takes two days for Sherlock to feel well enough to go out. He alights from the Overground at Kensal Green station in the early afternoon and is distressed by how tired he feels by the time he reaches the top of the two short flights of stairs to street level.

He turns left on College and then right onto Harrow, walking at a slow pace until he finds the restaurant he's looking for. It’s a cramped cafe not dissimilar to Speedy's, with large windows to the street and too many tables.

Morrison is easy to spot as he's facing the door and watching it as he sips from a cup of tea. The years have not been kind to him. He's past seventy now, twice div- -- no, widowed, then divorced. He still smokes and enjoys a traditional rich English diet too much despite a heart attack a few years before. While some old men shrink, Morrison is still corpulent and his bald pate rather makes him look like a giant egg.

Sherlock has the uncomfortable sensation of being equally deduced, telling him that Morrison was likely a competent investigator. Morrison motions for Sherlock to take the seat across from him, but doesn't offer his hand. Sherlock sits. "Tea, please," he asks the server.  
"They make a great chocolate cake," Morrison says.  
"Just tea," Sherlock says firmly.

"So Sharon Porter came to see you."  
"Yes, she did."  
"She thought I cocked up the investigation. What do you think?"  
"I have no opinion on the matter yet. I need to see the file."

Sherlock is surprised when Morrison reaches beside himself to the next chair and pulls up a thick folder secured with a rubber band, placing it on the table.

"I think you'll find the answer we've all missed right in here." He pushes the folder across the table. "Diane Brown was just kid. I've had bad ones over the years, but this is one of those that sticks with you."

Sherlock resists the urge to open the file right there. Instead, he pours milk into his tea and takes a sip. "Walk me through it."

Morrison walks him through it.

It's only after that that Sherlock carefully eases the rubber band off the folder and opens it. The first item is an autopsy photo. He's glad he skipped the cake as his tea roils in his stomach. But his voice is steady when he speaks. "That kind of violence is personal."

"That's what I think as well. The killer was in her inner circle. We missed a connection or passed an alibi we shouldn't have."  
"You reinterviewed everyone?"  
"Of course. Multiple times."  
"Hmm." Sherlock flips through the pages until he finds a list of the evidence collected. “Has any forensics work been done on the evidence?”  
“Just some white fibres that must have belonged to the suspect since Diane wasn’t wearing white.”  
“Hmm. A medium weight polyester-cotton blend. Coveralls?”  
Morrison does a double take. “Greg said you were good.”  
“I’ve done a study on the tensile strengths of various fabrics.”

Sherlock continues to sip his tea as he flips to the list of witnesses that were interviewed. "Can you get me meetings with Karen Howard and Annabelle Connors, to start?"  
"I can do that. Both still live nearby."  
"What about you prime suspect?"  
"Jimmy Mulligan? Never could pin this to him. His mum swore he was home before ten and Annabelle Connors confirmed that he left just after the girls arrived when he was warned off."  
"Hmm. I'd like to talk to Mickey Foster as well."  
"Died in 1986. He was at work all night. Never a suspect."

Sherlock drains his cup. "Well, I have enough to start. Does Sharon Porter still live near here?"  
"Yeah, she does. Same house she lived in then, College Street, by the kebab place." He writes the address down on a napkin. "If you go by Wrottesley and Bathurst Gardens, you'll pass the vacant lot where it happened. Only thing that's changed is that it's been fenced in, but it's still easy access. Thing that gets to me is that's a busy spot, even at night."  
"Not planned, then. Crime of opportunity?"  
"That's what I think."  
"Hmm. Well, thanks for your help."  
"Let me know if you need anything else."  
"Will do." Sherlock stands and shakes Morrison's hand before tucking the folder into his coat.

***

The crime scene is just around the corner, at the junction of the High Street. Wide open and bordered by two roads heavily traversed by pedestrians, it does not look sinister. He makes a note to ask Morrison if the wooden fencing blocking the view from Harrow Road had been there in the seventies. The site is still littered with debris and the only evidence of time having passed are the new metal fencing on the east and north side, complete with barbed wire, and the shipping containers. But strangely, the site does not have much in the way of a gate.

Sherlock continues on to Bathurst Gardens, turns right, and takes a seat on a low wall in front of an empty house with a for sale sign. He takes out the file and goes through it slowly a second time, making mental notes and painting a picture of the crime in his mind now that he’s walked Diane’s route. He's frustrated that no original theories immediately come to mind. Either he's still not back at full mental capacity or the police did all they could. Neither option is pleasant.

Once he's familiarised himself with the facts of the case, he puts the file away and then continues on to the Porters' quintessential London row house.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ate at this café before I went to Speedy's, so it's really Speedy's that's like that café and not the other way around. :)
> 
> The kebab place on College is real and the server there is a saint as he was so patient with a customer who hadn't slept in over 30 hours after traveling halfway around the world and kept zoning out while he was asking questions about her order...


	5. The Timeline

If Sharon is put upon by the lack of notice at the visit, she shows no sign of it. "Have you made any progress already?" she asks as she lets him in and takes his coat.  
"I only just got the file. I want you to fill in some gaps in your story."  
"Of course."

He follows her into a very neat sitting room that hasn't been updated since the eighties and takes a seat in a threadbare armchair. "I want to go back over your timeline for that day. I'll be doing that with everyone who was in contact with Diane that day to look for inconsistencies."  
"Okay, sure."

A barrel of a man who looks younger than his seventy-some years comes into the room from the opposite entrance. "Have you met my husband Ian?" she asks.  
"No, I haven't. Sherlock Holmes."  
"Ian Porter, nice to meet you." They shake hands. "Sharon told me you're working on Diane's case. Good to finally have someone competent on the job. I just made coffee. Or maybe tea?"  
"Black coffee, two sugars. Thanks. I was going to have Sharon walk me through her timeline for the day, but since you're here, perhaps we could do yours at the same time?"  
"Yeah, sure. Darling, coffee?"  
"Please, love."

"So Sharon, what do you remember about that day?" Sherlock asks as Sharon takes a seat on the couch in front of him.  
There's no hesitation as she starts her story. "I didn't see Diane that morning. With her coming in past four, even five, most nights -- mornings, she was still asleep when I got up. I'd get up as Ian was coming in from work. Night shift, cleaning. Don't miss those days at all. But he'd come in around seven and I'd get up when he did, then leave around eight. I worked at --"

Ian comes in with a tray. He passes Sharon a mug first, then Sherlock, who takes a sip and finds it pleasing, so he has another. He'd missed coffee when he was Away.

"Where you worked is not relevant. Go on."  
"I'd get in around seven, too. But. P.M."  
"Yes, I got that."  
"Um, Diane was home. She'd made a cottage pie."  
"Was it normal for her to do that?"  
"Sure. She always did her bit around the house."  
"Did she eat with the two of you?"  
"The two of us?"  
"You and Ian?"  
"Oh, no! Ian would still be sleeping. He'd get up between nine and 9:30, breakfast on whatever I had for tea, and then head straight to work. Started at eleven. He always stopped to get something for his lunch, which he ate around, what three?"  
"3:30," Ian said. "Not around. We were on a tight schedule."  
"Right."

"Sharon, let's finish with you first. So you had dinner with Diane at about seven. And then?"  
"Karen came by and they headed -- no. Diane didn't eat with me. She and Karen were going to have something later."  
"What was Diane wearing?"  
"Oh, you know, what girls wore back then. Short skirt, boots, loose blouse. Lots of makeup. Big hair. Kind of tarty, really, but that's how all the girls dressed back then."  
"Do you remember what colour her clothes were?"  
Sharon has to think for a moment. "Blue blouse and a brown skirt. I think."  
"Nothing white?"  
"Oh, definitely not. She was a bit of a sloppy eater and couldn't keep white clean."  
"Did she tell you where she was going?"  
"Yeah. A club on the High Street. They opened earlier during the holidays, eight, I think. That was it, really. She and Karen left and I never saw her again." Sharon sniffles. "She was a good girl. Never gave me any trouble."

"What about your parents?"  
"I don't want to talk about those sacks of shit."  
Sherlock is taken aback. "There was nothing in the file. I assumed your parents had died."  
"No. My dad liked his girls too much, if you know what I'm saying. Soon as I was of age, I pulled Diane out of there and threatened to go to the police if they made a fuss. We had a ten-year age difference. She was nine when she came to live with me."

Sherlock nods and makes a mental note to look up the parents. "So Ian, what about your day?"  
"Er, like Sharon said, came in about seven. I liked to stay up in the mornings, see some sun. Went and did some shopping if we needed it. Read a bit. I'd go to bed around one, sometimes earlier."  
"Did you see Diane that morning?"  
"To be honest, I don't remember if I did. Thought about it a lot over the years. Sharon and me, we never knew what time she came in in the mornings. You know, Diane was nineteen then, didn't need our permission to be out. So she and me overlapped a lot. Didn't see each other much. She'd get up after I went to bed and I'd get up after she went out."  
"Did you and Diane get along?"  
"Yeah, sure. She wasn't any trouble. Did her work around the house, respected us. She and Sharon were a package deal and I was fine with it. Wouldn't have married Sharon if I couldn't live with Diane, you know?"

"So you slept through the afternoon and into the evening?"  
"Yeah. Hard sleeper. Had the same schedule for years, so I was used to it. No idea what time I got up exactly, but Sharon's right that it was between nine and 9:30. I do remember I had the cottage pie cold because I didn't have time to heat it up, no microwaves back then, so it might have been closer to 9:30." He turns to Sharon, who shakes her head.  
"I don't remember either."

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock interjects. "I'm more interested in what you did between leaving the house and clocking in at work and if anybody saw you."  
"Uh, got to the curry house to get my lunch at about ten. I remember that it was insanely busy. So many kids. Ordered my usual, chicken tikka, rice, naan." The order took so long that I almost left. Worried I'd be late."  
"And yet you clocked in early at work."  
"Did I?"  
"Yes, you did. Normally, it was around 10:50. Records show that you clocked in around 10:40."  
"Oh."  
"Records from back then are abysmal, not like today with everything on the computer, so I wasn't able to confirm your order at the curry house. But many people remembered seeing you 'around ten' and that it was very busy. Would have taken some time to get your food. Diane's time of death was sometime between ten and eleven. Karen says that they left the restaurant around ten. You don't remember seeing Diane as you were coming in?"

Ian shakes his head. "Must have just missed her... Fuck. All these years and I never realised that I missed her by a few fucking minutes." He pounds a beefy fist into a couch cushion, obviously trying to tamper down his emotions for Sharon's sake. She's gone quite pale, but nods for Sherlock to continue.

"So you clocked in at work at 10:40, clocked out for lunch at 3:30, back in at four, and then out again at 6:30."  
"Sounds about right."  
"Went straight home?"  
"Yeah. Decided to surprise the girls and make 'em a breakfast since I was so hungry. French toast, hash browns, bacon. Figured Diane'd be happy to see her plate in the fridge whenever she got up."  
"But you didn't check that she'd made it in the night before?"  
"No. Never did. Was a safe neighbourhood, you know?"

"Okay." Sherlock says before draining his mug. "I'll be talking to a few more people."  
"It's been such a long time," Sharon says sadly.  
"Someone always remembers something. I'll be in touch."


	6. Interlude

Sherlock spends some time after breakfast the next morning rearranging his evidence wall when his phone rings. He doesn't check who it is, expecting it to be Morrison with contact details for Karen Howard and Annabelle Connors.

Instead, he hears, "Just wondering if you can still take Scottie this afternoon."  
"John?"  
"Yeah. I guess the answer's no."  
"Wait. What no? Of course I'm still taking her! Why wouldn’t I?"  
"Case?"  
"Hmph. It’ll take more than a forty-year-old case that is barely a four to make me cancel my Thursday time with Scottie."  
"Okay, if that’s what you want."  
"I said I’d take her Thursdays!"  
"All right. All right. Mary’s making bread again. Do you want cheese, cinnamon raisin, or half of each?"  
"Half."  
"Right. See you at two, then."

***

John is barely parked when Sherlock is at the kerb. That means he was watching out the window for them, maybe even standing in the entrance. And then, he sees Sherlock’s happy smile as he opens the door and catch’s Scottie’s gaze. She reaches for Sherlock and he makes quick work of the buckles so he can gather her in his arms, inhaling deeply as he tucks her against his chest and burrows his nose in her neck.

He loves her, John realises. Really loves her. He’s not putting on an act, playing the role of the perfect godfather. He truly cherishes this time with her. It’s a revelation that makes him see Sherlock in an entirely new light. When did he grow up?

"Sherlock?"  
"Hmm?"  
John sets a large carrier bag on the kerb before passing Sherlock the nappy bag. "Bread’s in there with more food cubes. Listen, Mary and I were able to switch our shifts to start later tomorrow. Would you mind keeping her overnight?"  
"Of course not," Sherlock replies, eyes still locked with Scottie’s as he chucks her under the chin. She gurgles happily at that.  
"There probably won’t be enough of the homemade food. The commercial stuff is fine if you run out of cubes, maybe a bit of cereal or whatever you can come up with. You know what you’re doing with her."  
That earns him Sherlock’s attention and he’s practically beaming as he replies, "I do, don’t I? How did that happen?"  
John smiles and shrugs. "Research and practice, Sherlock. Just like anything else. I have to be off. Have fun!"  
"Oh, we will, won’t we Scottie?"

***

Lestrade is just about at the bottom of his pile of paperwork when his mobile rings. He frowns when he sees the caller ID. "Sherlock?" he asks, concerned. He’s learned the hard way that only a true emergency warrants a call rather than a text.  
"Scottie’s stool is an alarming colour!"  
There’s a pregnant pause. "Right."  
"I didn’t want to bother Mary and John in case it’s nothing, I have no idea where my mum is, you know how Mrs. Hudson is at this time of day, and Molly doesn’t have children! You’re the only one I could call!" Lestrade chokes on a laugh. "Why are you laughing?! It’s really bright green!"  
"What does Google have to say?"  
"What?! Do you think I’d trust what some stranger on the Internet has to say about my goddaughter’s bowel movements?"

Lestrade takes a deep breath in an effort to stifle his giggles. "What have you been feeding her?"  
"I don’t know! Some of those cubes Mary made for her!"  
"Was one of those cubes, I don’t know, green?"  
"Not THAT green!"

That does it. Lestrade starts howling, tears streaming down his face. "I’m sorry," he stammers out. He takes a calming breath through the nose and exhales. "She’s fine, Sherlock. Her little body’s not used to processing all that roughage yet."  
"Oh."  
"Has she had gas?"  
"Yes. It’s very… noxious."  
"There you go."  
"Oh."  
"Don’t be embarrassed, all new parents go through this."  
"Not John and Mary."  
"John and Mary are a doctor and nurse, Sherlock. Does she appear to be in any distress?"  
"No. She was fussy but is better now that she’s let it out."  
"Rub her tummy gently and the next time she’s hungry, give her some mashed banana or cereal, something easy for her to digest."  
"Okay. Thank you." Sherlock sounds completely hangdog.  
"I’m sorry for laughing," Lestrade says sincerely.  
"I like having her here."  
"Believe me, Sherlock, she wouldn’t be with you, especially not overnight, if John and Mary didn’t think she was safe. And don’t worry, this is your story to tell or not. ‘Kay?"  
Sherlock sighs, "Appreciate it."

***

"So what's this case you've got on?" Mary asks as she comes to pick up Scottie late the next morning.  
"Forty-year-old rape-murder. Barely a four, but it's not like I'm drowning in work."  
Mary scans his evidence wall. "I've got some time. Do you want to walk me through it?"  
"Okay. So this happened in Kensal Rise, just after Christmas in 1977. The victim, Diane Brown, was nineteen years old. Popular girl. Lots of ex-boyfriends, but none current. Liked to party. Would start at the pub, end at the club. But still a good girl according to her sister, whom she lived with. Did okay in school, helped out around the house. Was well liked and kind. So on this night, she and her friend were tired and decided to get a late dinner and call it a night after. They split up at the intersection of Harrow and Wrottesley. Diane was found raped and bludgeoned to death the next morning." Sherlock passes Mary one of the post-mortem photos.

"Well liked, but someone had it in for her."  
"Yes. Police talked to everyone around her. The prime suspect at the time was Jimmy Mulligan, Diane's most current ex-boyfriend. His alibi was fuzzy and he'd been harassing her after the breakup. He's since been in and out of jail for everything from petty theft to domestic assault. He just got out of Pentonville for carjacking. They never had anything concrete on him and he always vehemently denied killing Diane while copping to other crimes."

"Hmm." Mary scans the list of witnesses. What about the brother-in-law?"  
"Solid alibi. Home to the curry house to pick up his dinner, then to work. Punch card shows he clocked in early. No time."  
Mary glances at the witness list again. "It's got to be one of the boys she went to school with if it's not Mulligan."  
Sherlock nods. "That's what I think as well. I've made a list. I'll see if Lestrade will give me access to the database to do some research." He tacks the post-mortem photo to his evidence wall.  
  
"Do you need help with any of the legwork?"  
"Not yet. I have meetings with Karen Howard and Annabelle Connors, the curry house cashier, this afternoon. I'll see if they have anything that can help  me narrow down a database search."  
"All right then," Mary says, standing and putting on her coat. "Same time next week with Scottie?"  
"Of course."

***

Sherlock helps Mary pack up Scottie's things and bundles them into a cab. Then, he heads across the street to catch the train to Willesden Junction.


	7. Interviews

Karen Howard had never married. In fact, she'd never really left the seventies, still favouring a too blonde Farrah Fawcett do paired with skin that had spent too much time in the sun beds. The irony of chasing her long lost youth was that it had her looking a good fifteen years older than she was. Her bedsit reeked of stale cigarette smoke. It was enough to further affirm Sherlock's decision to quit smoking for good for Scottie's sake.

She didn't offer him anything to drink as she guided him to sit at the sticky table at the back of the flat. She perched on the bed, which wasn't made up, and looked at Sherlock quizzically.

"What do you remember about the night Diane was killed?" he asks.  
"What don't I remember about that night?"  
"You'd been drinking --"  
"Not much. Not enough to forget that it was cloudy and warm and that the last car I passed before Diane turned was white."  
"Then you might remember who was at the curry house that night."  
"Jimmy Mulligan."  
Sherlock can hear the venom in her words. "Tell me more about Jimmy."

"He was bad news, but you know how good girls are. Diane thought he was sweet. Until he grabbed her wrist and sprained it. Dumped him right there. But he wouldn't take no for an answer. Kept turning up where she was."  
"Do you remember if he was still at the restaurant when you two left?"  
"Yeah, I do. He definitely wasn't. Mickey, the server, scared him off."  
"You don't recall anyone following you after you left?"  
"It wouldn't have occurred to us to watch for something like that, you know? It was a safe neighbourhood. Jimmy was a creep, but he'd never really hurt nobody. Well, until that night."  
"You think Jimmy killed Diane?"  
"Ain't no one else it could be."  
"The police also spoke with Diane's brother-in-law."  
"Ian? My God, Ian's a good guy. Always liked him. Was always so patient with Sharon."  
"How do you mean?"  
Well, she had a lot of, you know, personal issues because of what her father did to her."  
"By personal --"  
"I ain't going to spell it out for you."  
"Go on, then."  
"Ian was patient. He was only fourteen years older than Diane, but he was like a dad to her."  
"And her father treated her like he did Sharon?"  
"Yeah. Fucked up family. Sharon was a saint to take Diane in."

"Karen, how well did you know Diane?"  
"She was my best friend."  
"My best friend and I are still learning things about each other. I'm wondering if Diane had more, um, encounters with boys than you knew about beyond her official boyfriends?"  
"You asking if Diane was some kind of slut?"  
"No. I'm trying to find the suspect the police missed."  
Karen visibly deflates at that. "No. I'm sure of it."

"I'm having trouble with Diane's timeline earlier that day. Your interview notes from back then say that you came to Diane's house around 7:30 and that you two went out. But it doesn't say if you spoke to Diane at all that day. All I have is Sharon and Ian assuming that Diane slept most of the day after coming in in the wee hours of the morning."  
"That's probably right. It was after Christmas. We'd been out to parties every night and come home piss drunk, sleep it off, then start again. I really can't see her getting up and going out to meet with some bloke, not with a hangover. Listen, I've talked to I don't know how many people since it happened and I don't know what else to tell you but that it was likely Jimmy."

"What about Diane's father?"  
"What about him?"  
"Was he still in her life at all?"  
"Hell no. Lived in Islington. Diane never saw her parents again after Sharon took her. You don't think her father --"  
"I'm pursuing all avenues. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."  
"It was Jimmy," Karen says emphatically.

***

It's past three when Sherlock leaves Karen's flat. His nose is full of the stench of stale cigarette smoke, so he walks a long while in the fresh air, skirting around Wormwood Scrubs Park before ducking into a café and ordering a cream tea. He'd never been one to worry about what he ate, but he's cognisant of how much weight he needs to put on. So he's not shy about spreading the cream thickly and putting four sugars in his tea.

As he eats, he goes over his interview notes and the file again. After polishing off two raisin scones, he pulls out his phone and texts Lestrade.

_Any chance I can get access to the database? SH_

Lestrade texts back five minutes later.

_Brown case?_

_No. Jack the Ripper. Again. SH_

_Ha ha. I'll have Donovan set up a session for you._

_Thank you. SH_

He’s finishing his tea when the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up. He whirls around in his chair to find a large man of about sixty glaring at him.  
“You Sherlock Holmes?”  
“I am.”  
“Leave me the fuck alone.”  
“Oh. Jimmy Mulligan, I presume?”  
“That’s right. Heard my name's been coming up. I said it then and I’ll say it now -- I didn’t kill Diane Brown. So leave me the fuck alone.”  
“Or else what? You’ll beat me like you did Peter Jeffries? Or--“  
“Fuck you,” Mulligan spits out. “Let the dead rest in peace!” With that, he stomps out of the café.

***

Annabelle Connors lives in a neat one-bedroom council flat in Ealing and, in sharp contrast to Karen Howard, appears much younger than she is, lithe as willow from decades of yoga and clean eating. It doesn't matter that Morrison has given her a heads up, she still eyes Sherlock with suspicion and is hesitant to let him in. It's chilly and Sherlock is beginning to long for his chair and the fireplace at home, but he suggests that they go for a walk. Resigned, Annabelle finally lets him in. But she doesn't let him go any further than a chair in the hall and then stands in front of him with her arms crossed.

"I told DI Morrison everything I knew that night. I have no idea what more I can offer forty years later."  
"And, yet, you agreed to meet with me."  
"I did no such thing. But it's not like I had a choice."

Sherlock is surprised by her reticence. He scans her quickly and the conclusion he reaches is shattering.

"Oh, I see." He tries to gentle his voice, imaging what John would do. "Was it Jimmy Mulligan who raped you?"

Anger flashes in Annabelle's eyes and for a moment Sherlock fully expects that she will strike him.

"How dare you."  
"How dare I?" He hears his voice rise and again tries to soften his tone. He takes a breath before continuing. "A young woman in your social group was brutally raped and murdered. It would have been relevant at some point in the last forty years for police to know that you had been attacked as well. So I'm going to ask you again. Was it Jimmy Mulligan?"  
"Get out of my house!"

Sherlock stands and moves towards the entrance. He takes a deep breath and looks Annabelle in the eye. "Please," he says softly. "Sharon needs to know who killed her little sister."

Just like that, Annabelle's rage turns to grief as she drops onto the chair and begins sobbing. Sherlock kneels besides her, keeping a distance. "Who can I call for you?"  
"Bobby Donnelly."  
"How can I reach him?"  
"No. No." She lets a sigh that only be interpreted as relief. "Bobby Donnelly raped me."


	8. A Break in the Case

Donovan meets Sherlock at the entrance to New Scotland Yard a couple of mornings later. "You look better than the last time I saw you," she greets him.  
"That would not be difficult."  
She chuckles. “Well, thanks for the flowers. I was suitably shocked."  
"I hope it wasn't inappropriate…”  
"If they had been red roses, yeah. But camellias? Not at all. They were beautiful." She signs him in and hands him a guest pass. "So Greg says you need access to the database for a cold case?"  
"Mm-hmm. And since I made the request, I have a lead, a new suspect."  
"Glad to know some things haven't changed."  
Sherlock does a double take. "I think that was a compliment."  
Donovan winks. "Maybe."

She leads him down to a cubicle farm and directs him to the entrance to one. "I set up a laptop for you in there. Access credentials are under the lid. Let me know if you need anything. My office is in the same place."  
"Thanks."

Sherlock goes into the cubicle, hangs his coat from a hook, and sits at the desk. Donovan thought of everything as the chair is at the perfect height for him. He turns on the computer, accesses the database and performs a search for Bobby Donnelly.

There's a long charge sheet for him, but the date of the last arrest is 1989. Last known address is from 1997, in Belfast. The arrests are all for summary offenses, nothing sexual. Then something catches Sherlock's eye and he makes another search.

***

In the staff break room, Donovan's thoughts drift to Sherlock as she waits for the kettle to boil. Despite what she'd said, he looked terrible, so gaunt and frail. And she'd never known him to be that subdued. This is not the man she knew all those years before, whose life she all but destroyed. He might have the same name, but has very little in common with who he was.

It's time for a fresh start. So she pulls down another mug.

***

Five minutes later, she raps lightly on the cubicle's frame. "Come," Sherlock replies, not looking up from the screen.  
 "Thought you might like a cuppa," she says as she comes in.  
His head whips up and he sees the mug she's offering. "Oh. Oh! Thank you." He takes it and brings it close, inhaling deeply before taking a sip.  
"And biscuits?" She offers him a napkin-wrapped bundle of two digestives.  
That earns her a smile. "Even better." He takes them and promptly dunks one into his tea.  
"Are you going to be much longer?"  
"I'm not sure. Why?"  
"I was going to order Chinese for lunch. Do you want to join me?"  
"Um, yeah. Sure." He digs into his coat pocket for his wallet and extracts a tenner. "Whatever you get, for two, is fine."  
She takes the proffered note. "All right. Be about an hour. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime."  
"Sure." She turns to go. "Sally?"  
"Hmm?"  
"I appreciate the tea."

***

It's late afternoon when Sherlock gets home and he's thrumming with a high he never thought he'd feel again. He adds the new information to his evidence wall and then calls Morrison.

“Does the name Bobby Donnelly ring a bell?”  
“Maybe vaguely. Why?”  
“He went to school with Diane Brown. And he raped Annabelle Connors.”  
“Wait. What? How the hell did I not know that?”  
“We all have secrets, Alan.”  
“Fuck.”  
“I have more. At the time of Diane’s murder, Bobby Donnelly was doing clean-up at the slaughterhouse.” Sherlock gives Morrison a moment to process that.

“Coveralls.”  
“Exactly.”  
“You are good. Okay. I’m going to contact Sergeant Mary Bailey. She’s been on the case since I retired. I need you off this now. Up till now, you were working for a private client, but--"  
“I get it,” Sherlock assures him. “But I’d like to give Sharon Porter a heads up”  
“Definitely.” Morrison chuckles. “I don’t know what she’d be likely to do if I came to tell her that we finally got a break in the case and I had nothing to do with it.”  
“I’ll go see her first thing tomorrow.”  
“Good work, Sherlock. Just one question.”  
“What’s that?”  
“Are we likely to get a complaint from Annabelle Connors?”  
“I don’t think so. She was furious with me at the start of my questioning, but she spilled the beans so quickly that I think she was relieved to finally have it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the language of flowers, camellias are for thank yous.
> 
> Of course, "the database" is HOLMES 2. Couldn't name it for obvious reasons. :)


	9. Closing In

Mid-morning the next day, Sherlock finds himself back in the Porters’ shabby living room, with them looking at him expectantly.

“I may have found a break in the case.”  
Sharon lets out a deep breath. “What?”  
“I’m afraid I can’t give you exact details. The Metropolitan Police have enough now to reopen the case and test a piece of forensic evidence against a suspect."  
“Is it a new suspect?”  
"I really can't say anything more, but I thought you should hear that in person. The new investigator on the case is Sergeant Mary Bailey. She'll be in touch."

***

Sherlock takes his leave of the couple and heads out, turning in the opposite direction of the Overground station to instead return to the vacant lot where Diane was murdered. There’s something niggling at him and he’s concerned that he hasn’t had his epiphany yet.

It’s cold, so he buttons his coat, burrows his face into his upturned collar, and shoves his hands in his pockets. It still feels like a miracle to be walking these streets nearly freely. The month since his release could have been a lifetime, that nightmare feels so far behind him.

He reaches the lot and is trying to decide the best way to get over the gate when he realises what he’s doing. Whether trespassing is a summary or indictable offense doesn’t matter since he doesn’t want to give Mycroft’s people any reason to revoke his probation. So Sherlock doubles back and notices after the metal fencing that the low brick wall extending all the way to the intersection with Palermo appears to only partially belong to next property. There is a narrow strip of clearly vacant land between the fenced in part of the former crime scene and the house.

Sherlock hops the wall and finds himself in weeds and rubble, but with a good vantage point of the crime scene and out of sight of passers-by on Wrottesley. He closes his eyes and finds his way into his mind palace.

_In its long entrance hallway, he chooses a door and when he walks through it, he finds himself on Harrow Road. It is warmer out, but much darker. Ahead of him, he sees two women walking. Diane Brown and Karen Howard. They are chatting and giggling._

_They separate with a hug at the corner of Wrottesley. Diane is in impossibly high heels and walking slowly. The vacant lot seems bigger than it would forty years later because it is not fenced in, although the brick wall is there._

_Sherlock sees him then, the murderer, but only from the rear. He watches in horror as Diane is attacked and dragged around the brick wall. He reaches them. The attacker is on her, his white coveralls splattered with blood. The man looks up and Sherlock can almost see his face when, without warning, he’s pulled back to reality._

He’s on his front in the dirt. And there’s someone on top of him.


	10. Shock

Sherlock has no idea how long has passed before the shock starts to recede enough for him to begin processing what happened. He manages to pull down the gag to free his mouth and then fumbles for the phone in his coat pocket. He drops it as his shaking fingers refuse to wrap around it. He leaves it there, face up in the dirt and gore.

It takes two attempts and wiping a bloody finger on his trousers before he's finally able to enter his passcode. He shakily presses and holds the Home button before taking a deep breath, uncertain that he can do this more than once. At the beep, he stammers out, "C- -- c- -- call L-lestrade."  
After a long pause, Siri mercifully responds with, "Calling Lestrade."

***

Sherlock again, ringing twice in a week. God help them all if the man ever had a child of his own. Grinning, Lestrade accepts the call. "So what colour’s her poop this time?"  
"H-h-help."  
He straightens up. "Are you hurt?"  
"Y-yes. N-n-ot b-b-bad-dly."  
"Where are you?"  
"B-b-brown cri-ime s-scene. K-kensal G-reen. Wr-rotte-esley off H-Harrow.”

Pulse racing at Sherlock's shocky tone, Lestrade does his best to keep his voice level. "Sherlock, I'm going to call for an ambulance. Do you need police too?"  
"Y-y-yes."  
"Are you still in danger?"  
"N-no."

Lestrade can hear the effort Sherlock is making to steady his voice and that he can't is terrifying. "Okay. I'm on my way as soon as I ring them. They'll probably get to you first, okay?" There is a long pause. "Sherlock?" He only gets a groan. "Sherlock, stay on the line with me, okay?" He already has the landline off the hook and quickly punches in three nines. "Sherlock, it's ringing. Are you still there?"  
"Mm-hmm."

When the 999 operator finally picks up, Lestrade gives her the information he has and then he's racing to the car park.

***

An ambulance and patrol cars are already on the scene when Lestrade pulls up. First thing he sees is a man’s body lying in the weeds, the left side of his head crushed in. He’s clearly dead. Fuck.

He scans the area and finds Sherlock sitting at the rear of an ambulance parked across Wrottesley Road. He's nude from the waist up, blood splattered, and being attended to by a paramedic. His head is down and he’s holding himself very stiffly as the medic works on his back.

Lestrade crosses the street and calls out softly, "Sherlock?"

It takes so long for Sherlock to respond that Lestrade nearly calls his name again. But slowly, Sherlock’s head lifts. Dazed red-rimmed eyes lock with Lestrade’s. There’s blood smeared and splattered on his cheeks, forehead, and chin, as well as scrapes. The tip of his nose and chin look especially raw.  
"He’s dead," Sherlock says dully.  
"I can see that," Lestrade replies evenly, crouching to Sherlock’s height. "How are you doing?" When Sherlock doesn’t respond, just drops his head again, Lestrade looks up to the paramedic.

"Knife wound was superficial and his jabs are up to date. We won’t need to take him to hospital. Have his GP call in a prescription for antibiotics and painkillers and keep monitoring him for shock."  
"Thanks. Sherlock, I’ll let him finish up and then we’ll talk, okay?" Sherlock gives an almost imperceptible nod in reply.

Lestrade heads back to the body and sees that Sergeant Mulvaney is in charge. Good. She’s competent and doesn’t hate Sherlock. "Can you tell me anything?" he asks her.  
“No ID on the victim. He died from repeated blows to the head with a brick. I haven't ascertained a connection, if any, to Sherlock yet. He's been in no condition to speak to me and I haven't been able to caution him."  
"Can I try talking to him then? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this rattled."  
"We do this by the books and I’m the lead, but I have no problem with you taking him in and talking to him."  
"‘Course. Thanks."

Lestrade goes back to Sherlock as the paramedic is tucking his left arm into a sling and wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. It speaks volumes to how Sherlock is feeling that he tugs the blanket around himself tightly with his right hand.  
"He killed Diane Brown," Sherlock says flatly.  
"We’re not going to do this here, Sherlock. I have to take you into custody until we sort it out. We need to go to the Yard, get you processed, and talk in an interview room with a recorder."

The last remaining bit of colour drains from Sherlock’s face and Lestrade barely has time to step aside before Sherlock is bent over vomiting, some splashing on Lestrade’s shoes. Lestrade rubs soothing circles over Sherlock’s back as he retches for a moment, then straightens up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The paramedic presses a water bottle into Lestrade’s hands. He cracks it open and holds it up to Sherlock’s line of sight. Sherlock takes it with a shaky hand, rinses and spits, then drinks a few sips.

"You’re not under arrest yet, Sherlock. I’m taking you in in my car, okay?" Sherlock nods, still very wan. "First, I need to caution you. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"  
"Yes," Sherlock whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not responsible for the Caution's awful grammar.
> 
> In the name of realism, I may have created a "Lestrade" contact on my phone to see if Siri could understand a stammered request to contact it. Yes, on the first try.
> 
> As a former medical first responder, I believe that Sherlock not being transported to hospital considering his state of shock requires more suspension of disbelief than not being transported for his minor injuries.


	11. The Victim

At New Scotland Yard, Sherlock is processed, with scrapings collected from under his fingernails and his clothing being taken into evidence. Lestrade angrily makes note of the slashed trousers and photographs Sherlock’s injuries. Besides the knife wound, there are dozens of bruises, scrapes, and nicks all down Sherlock’s back, front, and face.

After, Lestrade is finally able to help Sherlock bathe perfunctorily at a sink and change into a disposable blue jumpsuit before settling him in an interview room with a cup of tea. Sherlock usually just takes milk, but Lestrade added sugar as Sherlock, now unable to contain his shaking, obviously needs it.

This is new in all the time Lestrade’s known Sherlock, dealing with him as a victim. He’s glad it’s come now, when Sherlock has matured and is capable of acknowledging that he’s in a bad way and needs help. It would have been a very different situation a few years ago, with Sherlock pacing back and forth, hurling insults, and insisting that he’s fine and that everyone around him is an idiot before bolting off to shoot up God knows what.

No, it’s not easy to look at Sherlock huddled in that awful jumpsuit, eyes bright with unshed tears, hands trembling enough that he sloshes tea over the side of his cup at every sip, but this is better. Lestrade can work with this version of Sherlock instead of feeling helpless as he watches his friend self-destruct.

Lestrade states the preliminaries -- name, rank, location, and date -- into the recorder, then starts. "I’m sitting here with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, can you please state your full name and spell your last name for the record?"  
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. H-o-l-m-e-s."  
"And what’s your birthday?"  
"January 6th, 1977."  
"What's your complete address?"  
"221B Baker Street, London, NW1 6XE."  
"At what number can we reach you?"

Sherlock gives his mobile number, then Lestrade continues. "Sherlock, I cautioned you on scene. Do you understand your rights?"  
"Yes."  
"And you understand this interview is being recorded?"  
"Yes."  
"What do you do for a living, Sherlock?"  
"I’m a consulting detective."  
"For the record, Sherlock was a consultant with the Metropolitan Police and assisted with cases off and on for about nine years as well as taking private clients. Now, tell me about your day and why we’re here."  
"W- -- where should I start?"  
"Where you think is most relevant."

"I was at Sharon Porter’s this morning. There was --"  
"Sorry for interrupting, but who’s Sharon Porter?"  
"Client." Sherlock inhales sharply and starts again. "She had asked me to look into her sister Diane Brown’s murder, from back in 1977. I’d made a break in the case and wanted to tell her in person that I’d handed the file back to the Metropolitan Police.”  
"Okay. What happened next?”  
“Something about the case didn’t feel settled to me. So I decided to go back to the crime scene for another look and to process all the details again.”

"So you went from Sharon Porter’s house to where her sister was murdered?"  
"Yes."  
"For what purpose if the murder was forty years ago?"  
Sherlock scrubs his face. "There was something wrong in the timeline and I thought that being at the scene could help me figure out what. Once there, I went into my mind palace to re-examine the facts of the case."

"We’ll stop here for a second. Mind palace?" Sherlock gives an irritated sigh that makes Lestrade smile. "Indulge me for the record, please."  
"It’s a memory technique. I created a building in my mind where I store memories. So I was in there looking at my mental images related to the case."  
"And you have no awareness of the outside world when you’re in this mind palace?" Sherlock gives a minute shake of the head. "This is audio only, Sherlock. I need a yes or no."

"No. I mean, yes, I have no awareness of the outside world when I’m in there. I lose track of time too. I don’t know how long I was in there before I was attacked."  
"Okay. Does any of that have anything to do with why you were attacked at Diane Brown’s crime scene?"  
"Her killer believed that he'd been identified."  
"Okay. We’ll pause here for a moment and talk about that. How did you identify your attacker as Diane Brown’s killer?"

It’s bad form to break away from the focus of the interview, but Lestrade thinks that giving Sherlock a moment to show off his intellectual prowess will help.

"It’s so stupid. We all missed it."


	12. Dénouement

_As the face of Diane's killer is revealed, the facts of her case flash before Sherlock as though on title cards. He brushes aside the irrelevant ones until he comes to the white fibres, which coalesce into cheap white coveralls._

_Coveralls. Who wears coveralls? Slaughterhouse cleaners._

_Cleaners…_

> _"Night shift, cleaning. Don't miss those days at all."_

_But he had an alibi…_

_A final card materialises…_

> _"Decided to surprise the girls and make 'em a breakfast since I was so hungry."_

_Two breakfasts?_

***

After a long pause, "Missed what, Sherlock?"  
"Ian Porter, Sharon's husband, had mentioned he’d made a large breakfast that morning because he was hungry."  
"Right."  
"But Ian’s alibi for the night of Diane's death was that he stopped to pick up a takeaway for his lunch. He normally had his lunch at 3:30 a.m. Why would he be famished at 6:30 if he’d had a substantial meal of curried chicken and rice three hours before? Only if he didn’t get a takeaway and instead used the time to rape and murder his sister-in-law.

"He saw Diane at the curry house and followed her from it. The restaurant was very busy that night and Porter stopped in often. The cashier was an unreliable witness. She was either mistaken when she said that he’d ordered food, confused it with another night, or she lied to remove attention from herself and her secret. Moreover, white fibres were found at the scene. He likely wore white coveralls to his job as a cleaner. It was a dark night and he got to work early. So he had time to clean up there, change into a fresh uniform, and dispose of the evidence. It was sheer luck that no one saw him."

Lestrade sighs as the pieces fall into place. "Okay. I'll make sure all of that gets passed on to the officer in charge in the Brown case. Now, let's go back to you. So you said you came back from your mind palace to find Ian Porter on top of you?"  
Sherlock takes a shuddering breath. "Yes."  
"Did you call for help?"  
"He'd gagged me."  
"Okay. Were you face up or down?"  
"Down. He had a knee in the small of my back and was using his hands to pin down my shoulders."

"Let the record reflect that Sherlock has a deep 20 square centimetre contusion on his lower back, just right of centre, consistent with constant pressure applied by a blunt object. Could you see him?"  
"No."  
"Then how do you know it was Ian Porter?"  
"Well, it made sense, but he spoke to me and I recognised his voice. Then, later, I was able to see his face."  
"What did he say to you?"

Like at the crime scene, the colour drains from Sherlock’s face. Lestrade leaps for a bin but Sherlock waves him off. "No. I’m okay." He swallows hard. "I have to say something before I relate what he said."  
"Okay. Sure."  
"The way he was on top of me, he, I mean --"  
"Take all the time you need to gather your thoughts." That earns Lestrade a glare.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and starts again. "The first thing I noticed when I got out of my mind palace was something hard against my backside. The way he was holding me down, he had his groin against my backside and that’s what I was feeling."  
"What were you feeling?"  
Sherlock sighs. "His erection."

He continues in one breath, "And then he said that he wasn’t into men but his wife didn't provide for him and he took what he could." With that out, Sherlock exhales and then starts again. "At which point he removed his left hand from my left shoulder so he could cut open the back of my trousers with a knife, that I saw later. Just my trousers, not my pants."  
"So what do you think his intentions were?"  
"Isn’t that hearsay?"  
A smile tugs at Lestrade’s lips. "We’re not on the stand here, Sherlock. You can tell me what you think he wanted to do."  
"He wanted to rape me," Sherlock says flatly. It’s only because Lestrade has known him so long that he can pick up the distress in his tone.

"How tall are you Sherlock?"  
Sherlock’s eyes narrow at the apparent change in subject. "Six feet."  
"And how much do you weigh?"  
"Um, about eleven stone."  
"So you’re tall, but very slight?"  
"Yes."  
"Not a lot of muscle?"  
"No. I was held hostage for some months and have only been back a few weeks. Haven't regained the lost weight or muscle mass."  
"How tall would you say Ian Porter is?"  
"About five feet eight inches."  
"And how much would you estimate he weighs?"  
"Maybe fourteen stone?"  
"So shorter but much heavier than you?"

Sherlock finally understands what Lestrade is doing. "Yes. His weight is in his muscles, not fat. He’s very trim, but his muscles are well developed. His biceps are more than twice the size of mine."  
"Okay. So how did it feel to have him on top of you like that knowing he wanted to rape you?"  
"Overpowering. I mean, I felt powerless. I didn’t have any hope of bodily getting him off me. I couldn’t move."

Lestrade gives a small nod to show that he has what he needs. "So what happened next?"  
"There was a lot of rubble on the ground."  
"Okay."  
"I was able to feel around and grab a piece of brick. With my left hand, because I didn’t have as much pressure on that side anymore."  
"Where was his hand at this point?"  
"Resting on my hip, with the tip of the knife digging into my side."  
"Let the record reflect that, earlier, I photographed a one centimetre nick in Sherlock’s left side, just under his last rib, that is consistent with cut inflicted by a smooth-edged blade. So what happened next?"

"I swung back with the brick. It was awkward in that position, but I managed to hit him. Hard enough to make him angry. He called me a bastard before shifting his weight enough that I was able to twist out of the way as he tried to stab me. Well, he did stab me, but likely not where he wanted to." He pauses as he gives Lestrade a knowing look.  
"Let the record reflect that Sherlock was treated on scene for a shallow stab wound to the left shoulder, near the arm socket, at the armpit. So what happened next?"  
"I was able to roll over and that was worse."  
"Worse?"  
"His groin was pressing into mine. And his eyes, they were wild. He was still pinning me down and holding the knife. I was certain he intended to kill me."  
"Then what?"

Sherlock’s composure finally breaks as tears start to trickle down his cheeks. "I still had the brick and a free arm. I swung again. I didn’t even feel any pain at this point. I just wanted him off me. I hit him hard this time. Left side of his face. It’s like it caved in. But he was still on me so I did it again. And again…"  
"How many times do you think you hit him?"  
"I don’t know," Sherlock whispers. "As long as it took for him to collapse on me. Then, I was able to shove him off and get away to call you."  
"Let the record reflect that I received a call from Sherlock on my mobile at 1347 hours and that the line remained open until we were disconnected at 1351 hours."

Lestrade makes a note. "Thank you for that, Sherlock. Now, I want to go back and dissect some of this." Sherlock sighs and drops his face into his good hand. "I know this is tedious, but you know how it goes. Let’s start back nearly at the beginning, just to be sure we’re clear on something. Ian Porter surprised you. Is that correct?"  
"Yes."  
"You didn’t ask him to meet you there?"

Sherlock’s head whips up, his eyes bright and clear at last. "What? You think I baited him? I don’t have a death wish! I’m a godfather now! I went to the crime scene to think. And besides, I still thought at that point that the killer was very likely Bobby Donnelly or maybe Jimmy Mulligan."

Relieved by Sherlock’s outburst, Lestrade smiles. "Okay. So you were in your mind palace and not aware of your surroundings when Porter surprised you. Is that correct?"  
"Yes. I don’t usually go into it that deeply unless I know I’m in a secure location, but I had no reason at that time to think I was being followed or in any danger."  
"Okay. Did --" Lestrade is interrupted by a knock at the door.

He makes a note of the interruption and time, then turns off the recorder. "Excuse me a minute. Do you want more tea?"  
"Please." Sherlock swipes at his nose.  
Lestrade pushes a box of tissues towards him. "I’ll have someone bring it in. I’ll be right back."  
"And I need to use the toilet."  
"Yeah, 'course. Be just a minute."


	13. Aftermath

Lestrade ends up stepping out for almost two hours. When he comes back into the room, he's surprised to see a balled up sandwich wrapper by an empty polystyrene cup and a half-full bottle of water in front of Sherlock. Sherlock normally doesn't eat when stressed unless his blood sugar levels are low enough to warrant a biscuit or slice of toast. So he must have been very concerned about getting locked up and not having a chance to eat again for several hours to have managed to choke down something more substantial.

It's a vast difference from the first years he had known Sherlock and would occasionally throw him in a cell overnight to appease a wounded superior. Back then, Sherlock would have been too busy mulling the case over in his mind palace to think about food until Lestrade let him out. Then, there would have been a demand for a full cooked breakfast before any information to crack the case would be revealed. It's a wonder none of those cases were thrown out on the grounds of bribery. God, Lestrade missed those days. And yet...

Back then, he would have found Sherlock pacing in the interview room, annoyed at being treated like a common criminal. But he's apparently learned his lesson, that there are consequences his actions, and that sometimes it's just easier to surrender. So he's still sitting in his chair, slumped over, good arm on the table cushioning his face. He raises himself up slowly, curiosity evident on his features.

"Well, I’ve got good news," Lestrade says.  
Sherlock's eyes narrow. "What?"  
"Thank God for CCTV." Sherlock’s jaw drops as his eyes widen in shock. "Yeah. There was one in the lot next door and it caught the whole thing. Crown prosecutor says it’s a clear-cut case of self-defence and no charges will be brought against you. Your statement is sufficient at this time and you’re free to go. Just be prepared that you will very likely need to answer more questions later, especially as this pertains to the Brown case and possibly to unsolved sexual assaults in the area.

"I also spoke to your brother and, based on the Crown's determination, this won't affect your probation. They agree that you were not looking for trouble and don't deserve to be punished for this."

"What about trespassing?"  
"What? Huh? No, no. You weren't on the actual site, Sherlock. It's an open lot next to it, no signage, no fence, just the low wall. Trust me, no one's looking for an excuse to lock you up."  
Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath and Lestrade thinks that he might actually start crying. "I've only been back a month..." He sniffles and drops his head back down to the table.

Lestrade goes around the table, kneels, and gently puts an arm around him. "Hey... Again, you weren't looking for trouble. Your brother says that his lot saw this case as you keeping busy with exactly the right sort of project and that you would have known well ahead of time if they had a problem with it."

Sherlock finally raises his head and while Lestrade can see that his eyes are full of tears, he's not crying yet. He nudges the bottle of water closer to Sherlock, who drains it in a few gulps.

"Come on. I'll take you home."

***

"They're keeping your coat as evidence," Lestrade says as they head to the entrance.  
"Doesn't matter. It's filthy and torn."  
"Is it your last one?"  
"Yep. My tailor's a magician. We'll see how he does. More worried about the blood setting in if they keep it long."  
"Right. I'll see what I can do."  
"Have been thinking of a new look anyway. Might even get a haircut."  
"Really? Can't imagine you with short hair."  
"Hmm."  
"Anyway, it's nippy out there. Will you accept a blanket?"  
"What is it with you and the damn blankets?"  
"Sherlock --"  
"I’m sorry. Yes. I --"  
"You did well in there. I appreciate you going through the exercise, okay?"  
"Hmm."  
"Wait for me here. I’ll get you that blanket."

***

They drive to Baker Street in silence, Sherlock leaning against the window lost in thought. He looks so young, Lestrade thinks. The events of the last few years have aged him, with silver strands beginning to streak the once jet-black curls, and lines showing up at the corners of his eyes. But the shock of the day has somehow smoothed out Sherlock’s features and he looks as young as he did when Lestrade first met him.

"You did what you had to do," Lestrade says as he pulls into a spot a few doors down from 221.  
"I don’t want to talk about it."  
"Okay."  
"Part of my probation is that I have to talk with a therapist every week. So I'll talk to her about it. If I need to."  
"Okay. Thanks for letting me know that. Now, let me go speak to Mrs. Hudson, then I’ll come help you out."  
"Fine."

Several minutes later, Lestrade is following Sherlock up the stairs, ready to catch him because Sherlock is dead on his feet and swaying now that the adrenaline is out of him. "Bed?" Lestrade asks.  
"Bath," Sherlock says firmly. "I’ll need help."  
"‘Course. Mrs. Hudson’s getting your meds. I had John phone in a prescription."  
Sherlock lets out a relieved sigh. "Thank God."  
"Anaesthetic wearing off?"  
"Wore off about an hour ago."  
"Oh, Christ, why didn’t you say something?"  
"I wanted to be clear headed."  
"Right. Let’s get this done."

Lestrade follows Sherlock into the bathroom and settles him on the toilet, runs the water, and then turns to help Sherlock with his clothes. Sherlock’s shoulder is stiff and it’s only with Lestrade tugging gently at the top of the jumpsuit that it eventually slides off so Sherlock can step out of it. He guides Sherlock into the tub, and then reaches for a flannel. "Back first, then hair?" he asks.  
"Fine."

Lestrade grabs the soap, lathers up the flannel, and then runs it gently over Sherlock’s back, avoiding the bandages over the stab wound and trying not to fixate on his knobby spine. Sherlock’s back is such a mess; the new injuries overlaying the old ones from his first time Away. It was incredible, really, the amount of abuse the human body could take and heal from. The mind, however…

He stops his thoughts right there and reaches for the hose. "Can you bend forward more?" Sherlock does. Lestrade passes the water over the sweat-matted curls. "Water temperature still okay?"  
“Perfect.”  
Lestrade makes one pass with the shampoo and another with the conditioner, then wraps Sherlock’s head in a small towel to keep the hair from dripping on his bandages. "Okay to finish on your own?"  
"Yes." After a pause. "I feel much better. Thank you."  
"And thank you for letting me help. What do you want to change into?"  
"Tee shirt and pyjama bottoms. Top drawer."  
"Dressing gown?"  
"I’m going right to bed."  
"‘Kay. Call me when you’re done."

Mrs. Hudson is waiting for Lestrade in the bedroom, holding a white paper bag. She already has the pyjamas laid out. "He’s fine," Lestrade assures her. "Is the upstairs room made up?"  
"I’ll take care of it."  
"You’re a saint, Mrs. Hudson."

He's examining the bottle of pain relievers when Sherlock calls for him.

Getting Sherlock out of the tub and dressed leaves Lestrade rather sodden, but with Sherlock being so docile and appreciative, he can’t be annoyed. He helps with the toothpaste cap and stands by with a cup of water for rinsing, then is finally able to settle Sherlock in bed, pulling the duvet over him. "Meds say you should take them with food."  
"I don’t think I could handle more than toast and maybe some orange juice if there’s any left."  
"Toast counts as food. I’ll go see about the juice."

A moment later, from the kitchen, "No orange juice. Mrs. Hudson brought in apple juice."  
"Fine!" Sherlock replies.  
"Do you want butter or jam on your toast?"  
"Both!"

Lestrade brings the tray to the bedroom a few minutes later. Sherlock greedily chases the tablets with gulps of juice, then nibbles on his toast. After finishing both slices, he leans back against his pillows with a sigh.  
"Do you want to lie flat?"  
"No. I’m comfortable." He already sounds half asleep.  
"Okay." Lestrade runs his hands through his hair. "You got lucky today."  
"I know," Sherlock whispers. "This week can piss off."

The tone makes Lestrade examine Sherlock more closely. He’s looking very slight in his ratty tee shirt, his left arm tucked up into the sling and his complexion paper white and still a little waxy.

Lestrade had accepted a long time ago that the man who returned to 221b Baker Street after more than two years away was not the man who had jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. The man who had returned to them was more considerate and less selfish.

But he was also fragile, especially after this second return, as though he had been faced with his own humanity and been chastened by it. Some might say he was a cold blooded killer now, but Lestrade understood that it was only Sherlock’s newly found humanity that had given him the will to execute Magnussen. Ironically, the event was further proof of how much more a better man Sherlock was now than he had been before.

"Painkillers working?" Lestrade finally says.  
"Hmm. You don’t have to stay."  
"I’m spending the night, Sherlock."  
"Well, if you insist, you should take the bed upstairs."  
"Already asked Mrs. Hudson to make it up."  
Sherlock is taken aback. "Oh."  
"I’ll come by in a few hours and see if you need anything. Good night."

As Lestrade is leaving the room, a sleepy voice calls out, "Greg?"  
Lestrade has to smile. "Hmm?"  
"You’re a good friend, you know that? I’m sorry I never told you."  
"Actually, you have."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole interview was inspired by the hundreds of hours of interviews between victims and police officers that I have been privy to over several years working in an administrative role for a number of police departments in Canada, the US, and the UK. But this particular scenario comes from one of my more memorable cases out of a major crimes unit in a large Canadian city. Canada and the UK’s legal systems are very similar and the Metropolitan Police’s procedures are comparable to those of any Canadian police department I’ve worked with.
> 
> So all that said, this scenario of Sherlock getting off so easily is not implausible. I’ve seen it happen and I feel compelled to explain the reason behind it. What it all comes down to is would the Crown prosecutor be able to secure a verdict of murder or manslaughter in this case? Very likely no. Sherlock had a very real fear for his life and was clearly overpowered — I put his weight in this at 150 pounds, while Porter weighed 200 pounds. Yet, even with that, a case could still be made for manslaughter. Which is why I made sure to corroborate with CCTV footage Sherlock’s statement that he only used as much force as was necessary to get free.
> 
> Which brings me to an earlier comment about the purpose of the pepper spraying scene. It actually had a couple. The first was to establish that Sherlock has been off is game and vulnerable, which would further sway the Crown prosecutor in his favour in the final act of the story.
> 
> The other reason is the narrative structure of this piece, where the key scenes have been paired —two attacks on Sherlock, two scenes of Sherlock in the bath, two interviews with the Porters, two visits to the crime scene, two calls to Lestrade, two instances of Sherlock accepting help, etc.
> 
> Tomorrow’s part is just a short epilogue. Thank you to everyone who has gotten this far!


	14. The Final Deduction

Sherlock makes his way into the kitchen the next morning to find Lestrade on the phone. He can’t hear what’s being said, but can make out from Lestrade’s posture that it’s something serious. He fumbles one-handed with the kettle as Lestrade promptly heads downstairs when he realises Sherlock is awake.

Sherlock goes to the top of the landing, but he can’t hear anything. His gut roils. Might have his probation swayed the Crown prosecutor to change her mind? His heart races as he flashes back to his week in solitary confinement. He blinks furiously as images of Porter’s dead stare and pulpy skull flash behind his eyelids alternating with memories of Magnussen with gore for a face, blood pooling under his head, so much like Moriarity... He sucks in a breath and tries to scrub the images from his mind.

Finally, he hears Lestrade tread up the stairs. He moves as quickly as his stiff body allows so that he can present the picture of nonchalantly making tea for himself and coffee for Lestrade, but Lestrade, looking grim, sees through the façade immediately. "You’re fine, Sherlock."  
"But --"  
"Are the painkillers so strong that you can’t deduce it?"

Sherlock swallows hard and shakes his head. It’s so clear now that he’s not panicked about the thought of going back to prison. "Of course not, it’s perfectly obvious. You left the room, so this involved me, if only peripherally. Therefore, the Brown case. It was something so distressing and unexpected that you wanted to follow up on it without my interrupting or distracting you. With the knowledge that she saved her sister from one sexual predator only to lead her into the arms of another, there is only one conclusion -- Sharon Porter killed herself last night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jolie_Black asked me to share what elements of this story occurred for real, as Diane’s murder was based on a true story.
> 
> The real girl was a year younger and she was murdered on her birthday in September, also in the late ‘70s. She was not a party girl at all. The night this happened, she had celebrated her birthday at her gang’s favourite restaurant. She was supposed to spend the night at her aunt’s, but had to go home to get something. She left the restaurant alone and was found raped and bludgeoned to death the next morning by some boys a few blocks away.
> 
> She had a slightly older sister, who is my connection to this case, who was about to be married. In no way was her intended ever a suspect in this case. Let me repeat that, Ian Porter is a figment of my twisted imagination or an amalgamation of various monsters I encountered over the years.
> 
> The real girl’s parents also were not monsters.
> 
> Finally, local police departments finally working together have posited the theory that the girl was the victim of a serial rapist/killer, so I kind of hinted that Ian might have been doing that.


End file.
